In the Clearing (39 page)

“Drunk. Smoking weed. They’ll never believe your bullshit. I don’t believe your bullshit.”

“We wouldn’t do that, Dad.”

“They’ll prosecute you. They’ll prosecute all of you. And they’ll convict you. And everything, everything we have worked for since you were born will have been for nothing.”

“We can tell them, Dad. We can explain what happened.”

“And do you think that girl’s parents, all those Indians, are going to understand? Huh? What do you think they’re going to do? Just accept what you’re telling them? You think they’re going to say, ‘Okay, well, it was just an accident. Thanks for letting us know’? And what about tomorrow, huh? What about the game? Do you know how many college recruiters are going to be at that game? Do you have any idea the trouble I’ve gone to for you? It will be over. It will all be over—the scholarship, college, the NFL. You can kiss it all good-bye, Eric. Is that what you want?”

Eric dropped onto the weathered couch, breathing heavily, tears streaming down his face.

“What did you tell the others?” Ron said. “What are they going to say happened?”

Eric looked up at him. “Nothing. They’re not going to say anything. Their parents don’t know they snuck out. They’re going to say they were in bed, getting ready for the game.”

Ron pointed a finger at him. “And that’s what you’re going to say. Do you understand?”

“Dad, I can’t—”

“You’re going to say you were home in bed getting ready for the game. And I’m going to say I was here with you. Do you understand? I’m going to
lie
for you, boy. I’m going to put my ass on the line and lie for you. Do you know what that means? It means that from this point forward, we’re joined at the hip. You go to prison, and I go to prison with you. You understand? I’m not going to prison. So you’re going to say you were home in bed. You got that?”

Eric nodded.

“I want to hear you say it. Say it, damn it!”

“I was home in bed.”

“And where was I?”

“You were home too. You were home with me.”

“Where is she? Where did you leave her?”

“The clearing. She’s in the clearing.”

“Give me the keys.”

“What? What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to clean up your mess. I’m going to make this right,” he said. “Now get your ass in bed. And don’t you get up. You understand me? Don’t you get up, and don’t you even think about talking to anyone about this.”

Ron crested the top of the hill and drove slowly down the slope. The snow continued to fall. A light dusting now covered the field and began to accumulate on the windshield. The car’s headlights inched across the ground to where the slope flattened, until illuminating an irregularity, what looked like a log, the top covered in snow.

Ron stopped the Bronco and slowly got out.

She lay on her side, not moving. The snow had begun to cover her, turning her black hair white. The cold was biting now. Ron heard a noise, what sounded like a man moaning. He looked back up the slope. The trees began to shake and sway, and the snow went airborne as if from a sudden explosion. The moaning increased, and a strong breeze carried the snow in a gust down the slope, hitting him flush in the face and rushing past him. He turned and watched the wind continue on, the flakes swirling clockwise along the edge of the clearing, the branches shimmering. Then, just as suddenly as the wind had started, it died, the snowflakes settling gently onto the ground.

Ron stepped closer to the body. Kimi Kanasket. The girl looked broken, though there wasn’t much blood, probably because of the cold and the snow. The ground had been chewed up by the truck’s tires.
Good
, he thought. It would look as though someone had gone four-wheeling.

He bent to a knee. Moisture seeped through his sweatpants. Uncertain how to carry her, he reached beneath her, one hand at her hip, the other at her shoulder, and rolled her toward him. He tried to stand, but he stumbled. He tried a second time and managed to get to his feet, though he was off balance. He worked to reposition the weight, nearly falling backward, nearly dropping her.

When he’d regained his balance, he carried her to the back of the Bronco. The spare tire hung off the tailgate, and he couldn’t lower the gate with his arms full. He moved to the side and rolled her out of his arms into the bed, where he’d placed an open sleeping bag. She landed with a dull thud, arms and legs flopping. Ron was breathing heavily, white gasps that the wind quickly dissolved. His heart raced, and he was perspiring, despite the cold snow melting atop his uncovered head and dripping down his face.

He covered her body with the sleeping bag and quickly got back in the cab, rubbing his hands in the blast of heat from the vents. When he could flex his fingers without feeling pain, he put the car in reverse, looked back over the seat, and saw something at the edge of the clearing in the muted glow of the backup lights.

A man?

Reynolds’s heart skipped a beat, and his breath caught in his chest. He jumped out of the car into the snow, but when he looked back he saw nothing now but swirling snow.

He got back in and quickly drove from the clearing, avoiding the hill and driving back along the path leading to 141. He’d thought about where to take her. The rafting boats put in up by Husum, near the bridge. He could get the Bronco close to the river there. People would assume she’d jumped off the bridge.

He checked the mirrors. No cars followed. He looked over the seat into the bed of the truck. The sleeping bag had started to slip down, and he could see the top of her head.

He made a right on Husum Street and shut off the Bronco’s lights as he drove across the concrete bridge. Just off the bridge, he turned right into a dirt lot and drove forward, parking amid the scrub oak, careful not to get too close to the edge that dropped to the river, but hoping to camouflage the car in the trees.

He shut off the engine and took another moment to gather himself. He checked the rearview and side mirrors, took a deep breath, and pushed out of the car. With his hands free, he was able to lower the spare tire and open the tailgate. He gripped the sleeping bag and slid her body toward him. When he got her to the gate, he lifted her again. The snow had melted, and her body didn’t feel as cold. It was easier to carry her this time, not having to stand from a crouch. He was better balanced and could more evenly distribute the weight. He heard the river—not a roar, but a hushing sound like the din of traffic on a freeway. It grew louder as he stepped closer to the edge.

She moved.

He nearly dropped her.

She moved again, twitching.

Then she opened her eyes.

Reynolds’s breath caught in his throat.

She lifted her head and looked up at him. Her lips parted, emitting a long, shallow gasp, like air escaping a tire. With the rush came a whisper. “Help me.”

Ron Reynolds stood paralyzed, not breathing, his legs unable to move.

“Help me,” she said again, her words soft but more distinct. “Please. Help me.”

His breathing came in quick gasps. He took a deep breath and found his voice. “I can’t,” he said. “I can’t.”

And he stepped to the edge and rolled her out of his arms.

Her body struck the water with a splash, submerged for a moment, then bobbed to the surface, her arms flailing before the current pushed Kimi Kanasket quickly downstream.

Eric Reynolds stood in the driveway of his boyhood home. Snow had begun to stick to his hair and clothing, melting and trickling down his face. His father didn’t ask him what he was talking about. He didn’t ask him to come inside. He must have envisioned this moment, though after four decades, maybe his father had come to believe he would never have to experience it.

“I did what I had to do,” he said, unapologetic.

“She was still alive?”

His father did not answer.

“And you knew it. You knew she was still alive.”

“Whether she was or wasn’t is not relevant.”

“Not relevant?” Eric said, disbelieving. “You’ve let me believe all these years that I killed her. You let us all believe we killed her.”

“You did kill her. She would have died.”

“No, Dad. She wouldn’t have died. I just spoke to the police detective. She would have lived.”

“There’s no guarantee.”

“If you had let me call, she could have lived.”

“And then what, Eric?” his father said, still calm. “Then what were you going to tell everyone? That bullshit story about it being an accident?”

“It was an accident. It was a Goddamn accident. We were just kids.”

“You were eighteen. They would have prosecuted you as an adult.”

“You know something? I wish they had. I wish they had because I’ve been punishing myself for the past forty years, and nothing could have been worse than what I’ve been through, what I know Darren and Archie went through, what Hastey continues to go through.”

“Seems to me you’ve done pretty well for yourself.”

“Really? Have I, Dad? Have you even noticed? Do you know why I’m divorced, Dad? You don’t, because you never bothered to ask. I’m divorced, Dad, because I wouldn’t have kids. I had a vasectomy before we were married without telling her, and I let her believe she was the problem. And do you want to know why I did it? I did it so I could be certain I would never have children. Because I was afraid that I’d have a daughter, Dad, a little girl who would grow up to be a teenager someday, and that I wouldn’t be able to look at her without seeing Kimi. And every day she would be a reminder of what I did. What I
thought
I did. You allowed us to live our lives thinking we killed her, and it killed Darren and it killed Archie and it’s killing Hastey. That’s what you did, Dad. You let us all kill ourselves.”

“I did what I did to protect my son. To protect everything we worked so hard to accomplish. You would have lost everything—your scholarship, college.”

“You traded her life for my scholarship?”

“You would have gone to prison.”

“I wish I had. You have no idea how often I just wish I had. Because then, at least, I could have said that I got what I deserved, and maybe I could have moved on with my life instead of living like this, like a coward.”

“You don’t have children. You don’t know. You would have done the same thing.”

“No,” Eric said. “I wouldn’t have. I would have called if you had let me. I would have called, Dad. I wanted to call. But you wouldn’t let me, because this was never about me. It was always about you, about preserving your legacy. That’s what this stadium is all about. That’s why you let me believe I killed her—because you could keep control over me, let me believe if it wasn’t for you, I would have nothing. That’s why you did what you did. It had nothing to do with me.”

“When I lost your mother, I swore I would never lose anything ever again. I did what I had to do to preserve what was left of this family.”

“She would have been ashamed of me. And she would have been more ashamed of you.”

Ron Reynolds did not immediately respond. They stood in the blanketing silence, the snow falling heavier now. “What’s done is done,” Ron said, sounding resigned. “You can’t change the past. Tomorrow they’ll dedicate the stadium, and our names will be forever etched in history.”

And with that, Ron Reynolds took a step back and slowly shut the door. A moment later the yellow light went out, leaving Eric standing in the dark, the snow cascading around him. He started for his truck, then stopped, wondering. His dad was always so organized, so detailed, and so practical. It’s what had made him such a good football coach. He looked behind him, to the carport. Then he turned and walked alongside the car. It was dark, but he used the flashlight on his cell phone to scan a lifetime of accumulated sporting equipment. Fishing waders hung from nails in studs beside camouflage hunting pants and jackets, a crossbow, tennis rackets, golf clubs in golf bags, baseball bats in a bin, a backpack. Below them he found the blue plastic storage bins marked with a black marker, the words faded but still decipherable.

Eric moved the bins around until he found the one that said “Hunting Equipment.” He snapped off the top and directed the light inside. His father’s hunting boots stood neatly inside, newspaper stuffed into each leg to keep the boots straight.

CHAPTER 34

T
racy watched Eric Reynolds exit the carport. She stood in the road just beside her truck. Reynolds didn’t startle at the sight of her, as if he’d been expecting her to be there. Maybe he’d come to his father’s house just to get the boots, but then his father had opened the door. Tracy could tell from the two men’s body language that they were having a conversation they should have had forty years earlier. There were no hugs, no handshakes, no displays of affection or warmth of any kind. They kept their distance. Physically, it was just a few feet, but clearly it was a much greater divide. The conversation had been short, which meant there had been no denials, no arguing, no attempts to explain. Each man had done what he’d done and had lived with the consequences of his decision.

Though Eric Reynolds didn’t wear a jacket, he did not look cold. He held up the hunting boots.